“My mom used to put out a scarecrow in the garden,” Lord says. “She called it the Face of Doom and said that it would keep intruders away.”
Wren gasps and holds her breath for a moment in disbelief. She excuses the sound as a hiccup, not wanting her husband to know he’s upset her. Of course Lord would have no idea she has been having constant dreams about a scarecrow. His comment is surreal: does he somehow know her thoughts and fears?
While Lord continues to inspect and admire her new pottery pieces, Wren leaves for the farmhouse to retrieve their espresso machine. “I’ll bring it out here so we can both enjoy a couple of cappuccinos.”
“Sounds great,” Lord agrees. “I’ll continue packing up these pieces. You are going to have a spectacular show.”
Wren feels guilt at the thought of keeping secrets from her husband, but decides to push all concerns out of her mind and commit to enjoying this day with Lord, free from harm, free from worry, free from sin. She whispers a prayer, barely audible, as she walks toward the front door.
Public Admission
Wren has never been much of a churchgoer, though she attends every once in a while on special occasions, so she feels no guilt about hosting the opening of her new exhibit on a Sunday. The past couple of weeks, she’s been giving all her thoughts and efforts into her pottery.
What is occupying her now is unpacking the cardboard boxes filled with new work. Lord is helping her unload both her car and his own vehicle, carrying the heavy packages up a flight of stairs and into the spacious gallery. It’s an excellent day for a show. There is no wind, no clouds in the sky, with the only sounds across the prairie being the many vehicles out and about. Wren hopes the drivers see the sandwich board she’s placed out on the road, inviting everyone to come and visit this afternoon.
She says a silent prayer that her exhibit will be well-attended and gives thanks that lately, she seems to be more at peace now that her veil of sadness has been partially lifted. She offers her prayer upward and thinks about the acts she’s recently undertaken. She has always figured that if a person is truly contrite or filled with sorrow about harmful acts they’ve committed, God already knows.
Wren doesn’t feel the need to go to confession in these moments. To her, making an admission during confession seems more like talking to a counsellor or therapist. Wren isn’t convinced that that type admission of guilt is necessary for her. She has rationalized that remorse, or even forgiveness, isn’t needed given what those men did. She feels no remorse for ridding the world of hateful and damaged men, men who treated women like throw-away objects.
The stories of their demise are etched on some of the new pieces she’s unveiling today. Those stories could so easily be deciphered by anyone knowing what to look for in the petroglyph designs decorating her bone black pottery. On an abstract mask, there is an image of a fish in the place of a mouth. Another piece, a heavy coffee mug, is decorated with a string of hand-painted pearls. It takes Wren, Lord and the gallery curator about three hours to set up all the pottery. Some pieces are hanging on the wall; others are displayed in cases. Wren has created dozens.
Just as they finish, there is the sound of footsteps outside. Next, the faint sound of a doorbell, signalling someone is entering the building. The curator greets the visitors, telling them to help themselves to some cookies, crackers and cheese that she’s carefully set out in the lobby. “Here are some napkins, and there is coffee or tea in the corner if you like. Help yourself and enjoy while you look around.” She gestures towards the main gallery area.
The guests are a mother and her daughter, out visiting in the valley for the day. They saw the sign out on the highway and decided to come in and have a look. “Oh Mom, you have to come take a look at this. I love it,” exclaims the daughter. She tells Wren that her older sister is getting married in the spring. “We totally have to buy this for her, Mom.”
“Oh, it’s perfect,” the mother replies. “And so different from other pottery we’ve been looking at.” The girl and her mother admire the bone-black finish on their new wine decanter. Wren has painted images of the lake where that red truck belonging to the roofer is now permanently parked.
Lord stays the afternoon to help Wren with the opening, which is a good thing. Within the hour, he’s the one looking after the cash box as Wren explains her new designs to the admiring public. (Well, a partial explanation—she’ll never tell anyone where she got the bones for the bone black finish.)
“My love,” Lord says during a quiet lull in crowd activity, “whatever you have been doing, you’ll have to keep doing it. People love this work.”
It’s been such a great couple of weeks that Wren hasn’t given any thought to Myron Salt and the story she heard on the news the day she picked up Lord at the airport. But now, as she watches visitors fussing over her new style of pottery, she promises Lord that she’ll find a way to make more of the same. After all, she knows exactly where she’ll get new material.
Scoundrels
Lord’s time at home was lovely, but business calls sooner than later. Lord must make another trip to Manitoba, driving out today. Wren will be alone with her thoughts again, thoughts of scorn and revenge towards those who cause harm but are never called to answer, who never face responsibility for what they’ve done. Maybe she would have tried stopping, but without realizing he’d done so, Lord has encouraged her. Whatever you’ve been doing, keep doing it, he’d said. Words that ring in her thoughts now.
Wren has tracked Myron’s routine to a place called Scoundrels, a local watering hole that used to be frequented by many in Regina’s north end before the freeway was constructed. It used to be a place where respectable people might pop in for a drink after work, but not anymore. Pasqua Street has become almost silent unless you listen for slurred and hushed whispers from the Scoundrels parking lot. Now, low-lifes hang out in dingy, sticky booths. Dank with despair, it’s a place where dreams come to die, a place where all who visit seem to have abandoned their decency. Myron is one of them.
Wren parks her car in a parking lot with a falling-down fence tagged with graffiti and a garbage bin overflowing with debris. She sees a ragged scarecrow displayed in the front yard belonging to an area resident, across the street from the bar. That damn scarecrow. Wren hasn’t seen it lately in her dreams, but now there is one staring at her. The face of doom.
As she sits in the car staring at the scarecrow, Wren wonders if the smallpox epidemic that used to exist throughout the land now exists within people’s minds, eating away at everything sacred and good. Wren decides then and there to see her actions tonight as eliminating the effects of this plague.
Wren has been following Myron for the past couple of days, the same way any good hunter pursues an animal. Myron has not been difficult to track. He comes from a prominent and well-known family that owns a chain of prosperous restaurants in each of the province’s major cities. The family contributes to a charity that allows the less fortunate to send their kids to music lessons, take part in sporting activities or buy gifts at Christmas time.
Admirable generosity, but local folklore has it that the family accumulated its wealth after winning a high-stakes bet in a basement poker game, right here at Scoundrels. Whether or not it is true, there are still whispers that if you borrow money from the family and it can’t be repaid, there will be big trouble. Rumour has it that on more than one occasion, a borrower has had to pay with a property deed.
The Salt family reeks of white privilege: a general advantage that makes it easier for them to cheat anyone out of what is rightfully theirs and get away with it. They just take what they want. Myron was represented by a skilled and expensive lawyer up against an overworked public defender. At the trial, grainy footage showed images of someone who could have been Mavis getting into a grey pickup at a gas station near the outskirts of town. The footage indicated some type of specialty bodywork on the back bumper of the truck—a painting of a
yellow honeybee flipping the bird. In the end, the footage was inadmissible because neither the person nor the bodywork was clear enough for a positive ID. This lack of forensic evidence and no eyewitnesses ensured Myron’s acquittal. After he was charged, the bee was removed and the truck repainted a dark shade of grey. The Crown requested records of bodywork from the family’s own autobody repair shop, but none came up. Family sticks together.
Myron is his parents’ third child but unlike the elder siblings who went on to take business training, Myron has been adrift. He skipped classes during his first, second and third years of high school, and eventually dropped out, which his parents passed off as growing pains. When he started snorting cocaine at the age of fifteen, they blamed his social circle and sent him off to rehab, never sitting down with him for a frank discussion or administering any discipline. He’s one of those people who has always been afforded the benefit of the doubt.
Wren has stalked Myron enough to piece together a pretty good picture of his life. He works a part-time job in a local convenience store where he makes minimum wage, but not to worry, he’s learned to get what he wants. No longer snorting cocaine, he now sells it—a lucrative business that allows him to live alone in a historic, renovated war-time home near Scoundrels, where he makes his deals. Each time there’s a nod from a stranger amongst the smoke and darkness of this forsaken place, Myron goes to the bathroom, followed closely by the buyer. Everyone knows that neither are heading to the can because they need to pee. Other patrons don’t get involved. They’ve been scared, been hurt, been damaged and are just too blind-drunk to care.
Myron hasn’t used ever since he smashed a brand-new car his parents bought him as soon as he got his licence. High as hell at the time, he wrapped it around a telephone pole on the highway. But before the police arrived, he called his parents at four in the morning to come pick him up, which they immediately did. The next day they filed an insurance claim that the car had been stolen. Because of the family’s prominence, there were no questions and no consequences. Myron’s parents replaced the vehicle within days with a fully loaded suv. He promised them that he’d stop snorting, and so far he has.
Wren knows all of this because people repeat things they have been told, even if the story was told with the promise of secrecy. Myron likes to brag about things he’s done and gotten away with, too, about how he’s above the law. Wren discovers where Myron lives from a casual conversation with a new clerk at the convenience store. She also finds out that Myron’s new drug of choice is vodka. “He turns up at work so often hungover. Or, I swear, he’s still drunk. But hey, the customers seem to like him,” gossips the clerk. Of course they like him, Wren thinks. He provides them with blow.
Wren sits in her car, waiting for him. She is armed with the information the convenience store clerk provided. It’s almost showtime.
Anomie
It’s nine-thirty in the evening by the time Wren finishes her takeout food and wipes her mouth with a napkin. For the past half hour, she’s been staked out in the parking lot, regularly checking her rear-view mirror and see what activity is happening on the street, who is coming and going.
A bag lady wearing black rubber boots wheels a rusted, old shopping cart across the Scoundrel’s parking lot toward the dumpster. She’s just tall enough to look inside, but she doesn’t seem to find anything of interest so she moves on. Wren watches two young boys carrying hockey skates tied together and slung across their shoulders. They walk quickly on the icy sidewalk followed by a medium-sized brown mutt that isn’t on a leash. A few cars drive by, most of them older models. The last one Wren saw was missing a back bumper and was obviously in need of a new muffler.
Wren notices a dark figure walking up Pasqua Street. At first, she can’t make out his face because every second streetlight in this area has a bulb that is either burned out or smashed. As the person comes closer, Wren can see it’s a man. He is wearing a toque, a three-quarter length parka and is tall. He walks with purpose, like he has somewhere important he needs to be.
Wren naturally wonders if this might be Myron. She’s been watching him enough lately to know that he has some odd mannerisms. He incessantly picks his nose, for example. Wren thinks about how Myron handles food when he’s working at the convenience store. Even though it isn’t a restaurant, there are items like hot dogs or beef jerky in a jar, food items that need to be handled by a clerk. As if on cue, Wren sees the walking figure raise his right hand to his nose, dig around, and then flick whatever he’s found toward the street. As he comes nearer to the parking lot, she can also begin to see the outline of his face. It’s Myron.
Wren is heavily disguised wearing a long, pink and blonde wig and exaggerated makeup like an Egyptian princess. She imagines that Myron’s warped sense of entitlement means he thinks can do whatever he wants, including be violent with women—especially brown women like her, many of whom live in the area. He’s already proven he can get away with anything.
Wren leaves the safety of her vehicle and follows Myron into the bar. The heavy, wooden door weighs a ton and she has trouble opening it. Once inside, she glances around the dark room for Myron. She catches a glimpse of him and walks over to him. He is already drinking a beer. “Mind if I sit here?” she asks.
“Please do, baby girl,” Myron responds, looking her over. “You look just like cotton candy.”
Wren takes a seat at an empty table near the bar. Myron moves from his stool to join her. “Can I join you?” he asks.
“Sure,” she manages to say through her disgust.
“I’m kind of alone right now,” he says. “So thanks.”
“I’m just here to meet a friend,” she lies. “We were supposed to meet an hour ago, so I’ve been waiting in the parking lot. She hasn’t showed yet, so I thought I’d pop in to see if she came in without me knowing.”
“Well, sugar,” Myron says, making an attempt at being charming, “I’ll be your friend, if you like.” He sloshes down the drink he’s holding and some of the liquid splashes out on the table.
“Let me get the next round,” Wren offers.
“Works for me,” he says. “I’ll have a vodka.”
She walks to the bar in her frilly, silver chiffon shirt and orders. “Double vodka,” she says to the woman behind the bar, “and a cranberry juice with soda.” Wren slyly examines the area around the bar to see if there are any visible security cameras in place. It makes sense that there should be, but the only camera she sees is facing the cash register, which she stays away from. The young bartender hands Wren the drinks without making eye contact, then continues wiping down the surface of the counter. It seems as though this barkeep has learned the benefits of paying minimal attention.
“Actually, better make that two doubles. My friend seems thirsty tonight.”
The barkeep hands over a second drink. “Honey, you need to find yourself a better group of friends.”
As the night wears on, Wren continues to purchase drinks for Myron, adding up to about a half-dozen trips to the bar for double shots. Wren always pays in cash, leaving a big tip for the bartender each time. By the time Myron is almost finished his last drink, Wren makes a suggestion: “I think my friend is a no-show tonight, so I might as well just head home. It’s been nice sitting with you, but I think it’s time to go.”
As she reaches for her purse, Myron offers to walk her out to her car.
“I need to have a smoke anyway,” he slurs. “May as well walk you out and then maybe head home myself.”
It’s been over two hours. The clock says it is 11:32 as Myron follows Wren out the front door. She told him she was drinking vodka as well, so Myron believes she’s as wasted as he is right now. She didn’t give him any personal details all night long. She didn’t have to. The entire conversation revolved around how much money he makes, how he plans to make more, and that he just bought a new vehicle.
“I onl
y live a couple of blocks away,” he mumbles almost incoherently.
Wren notices a wet spot on Myron’s pants. Holy shit, she thinks, he’s pissed himself.
“I say you come home with me and we choke the chicken together,” he suggests, unable to stand without swaying in place.
Wren laughs but feels like scratching his eyes out. “Sounds good,” she says. “But instead of going to your place, I think you should come home with me. I’ll cook you breakfast in the morning.”
“Well now that there is a plan,” he agrees, trying to light a cigarette.
He’s having problems with the childproof lighter. Not surprising, Wren thinks to herself as she grabs the lighter from his hands and flicks it to spark.
She has to hold him up as they walk to her car. Wren opens her car door and helps her drunken victim into the passenger seat, thinking only about purging the world of filth. Like getting rid of aphids or slugs, she muses, looking at his glassy eyes and swollen mouth. And wet pants. Wren suddenly stops assisting him into the vehicle. “I have a dog who sheds a lot and I don’t want you to get covered with fur,” she lies. “So just a second. I’ll grab a blanket and put it over your seat as a cover.” She carries a blanket in her car because Lord insists, just in case she finds herself stuck sometime.
“Oh, sure, thanks,” Myron replies.
Wren isn’t sure he even knows what she just said. Once he’s in and buckled up, she offers him some Gatorade.
“You’ll want to drink this. It’ll help you not have a hangover in the morning.”
“Oh, okay,” Myron says, taking the drink. He takes down the liquid, laced with several crushed-up blue pills, in one big gulp. He is passed out by the time Wren pulls into her long, dark driveway.
Amid Frenzy and Condemnation
Wren uses all her strength to pull Myron’s body from the passenger seat of her car. He lands with a thud, hitting his head on the cobblestone walkway to the house. Wren curses at herself for being so careless. She remembers the time when Mooshum helped young Wren and her sister plant lollipops in the cracks. Wren shudders at the thought that Myron’s body has touched these stones.
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